Seventy-Seven

The performer stands alone on stage and speaks directly to the audience.

Performer: In 1952, John Cage composed a piece of music called “Four minutes, thirty-three seconds” consisting of four minutes and thirty-three seconds of no playing. Silence is impossible. The ambient noise becomes the music. In his spirit, I present a monologue I call “Seventy-seven seconds.” I will not speak. I will not emote. I will not act. The drama is within you, dear audience. Turn inward and see.

The performer peeks at his digital wristwatch.

And...now!

He strikes a pose, pompous but not ridiculously so. A few seconds pass. The interloper enters.

Interloper: [Performer’s name]! I want my money.

The performer ignores him.

[Performer], you owe me four dollars and thirty-three cents. [Performer]? Don’t ignore me, prick.

The interloper hits the performer, who attempts to remain unfazed, lightly upside the head. The interloper looks outward at the audience.

The hell are you looking at anyway?

The friend enters and sees them. Jokingly, she turns and calls offstage:

Friend: [Interloper], I found [performer].

Interloper: Cute. He’s not paying up, anyway. He’s making some sort of idiotic statement.

The friend joins the two others in looking out at the audience.

Friend: What are we looking at?

Interloper: I dunno.

The friend and interloper turn in and face each other. The performer discreetly checks his wristwatch, visibly peeved that they are interrupting his dramatic moment. The friend takes out a cell phone and starts to text a friend as the interloper starts to mock the performer.

Interloper: ‘My name is [performer] and I’m giving my good buddy the silent treatment because I can’t afford to pay him back the spare change I owe him. That’s because I don’t have a job. The warehouse fired me because I cried when I stubbed my toe on somebody’s old furniture and wouldn’t work for a half hour. I’ve never satisfied a woman. My pet cat ran away because my breath was worse than its breath was and I was too busy writing pretentious angsty bullshit to remember to feed it. It’s a good thing [interloper] can afford to be generous since everyone likes him. He’s too nice to break my legs in collecting his debts even though he very easily could and I wish he would because anything would be better than my present insufferably miserable condition.’

Friend: I feel like KFC.

Interloper: Last time we went to KFC, I ended up short four bucks thirty-three. Which this dork won’t pay me.

Friend: Come on, let’s go.

Interloper: He never pays. Doesn’t have any money ‘cause he’s a suffering artiste. I’m not spending any more cash on his sophisticated fast food cravings. (To the performer) You hear that, buddy?

Friend: Forget him. I’m starving. Let’s go. I don’t want to eat alone; it makes me feel like a leper.

Interloper: All right.

They leave together as the performer angrily counts the final seconds. As they exit:

Friend: Do you think you can spot me?

He continues to count through this, until finally he reaches into his pocket and throws his loose change in their direction.

Performer: I’ve got seventy-seven cents on me, asshole. Take it!

Curtain.